This time, yes.
I gave her copies of the earlier case numbers.
She photographed messages from my phone.
Then something happened that changed the direction of everything.
The younger deputy returned from his patrol car.
“Vehicle was reported near two of her previous locations.”
The female deputy turned.
“What?”
He explained.
A traffic-camera database had picked up the same plate on highways near San Bernardino.
Then near Victorville.
Then Barstow.
Within time windows consistent with following us.
Grant said nothing.
I felt sick.
The deputy looked at me.
“They’ve been following you.”
The sentence was simple.
Validation should have felt good.
It did not.
Being right about danger is one of the worst ways to be right.
I looked at Chloe.
She had come out of the office.
Mr. Buttons tucked under her arm.
“Mommy?”
I forced myself upright.
“We’re okay.”
The female deputy looked toward Grant.
“You heading north?”
“Eventually.”
She looked at me.
“Where are you going?”
“Bakersfield.”
Grant said, “We can ride with them.”
I immediately shook my head.
“No.”
He raised both hands.
“All right.”
The deputy looked at me.
“The SUV may come back.”
I knew.
That was the problem.
The deputy continued.
“We can escort you to the county line.”
Then looked at Grant.
“After that, they can keep an eye out.”
I hated the idea.
A convoy of bikers around my little Honda.
It sounded absurd.
It looked worse.
It felt like surrendering control to more men.
Grant must have seen all of that on my face.
He said quietly, “You lead.”
I looked at him.
“We stay behind.”
“You choose the speed.”
“You stop when you want.”
“You change route when you want.”
“If you tell us to leave, we leave.”
I stared.
He added, “Nobody gets in your car.”
That was the sentence that made it possible.
My car.
My daughter.
My decisions.
Protection without control.
I nodded.
“Fine.”
Chloe smiled.
“Do we get motorcycles?”
“No.”
Grant laughed.
“We have enough.”
Before leaving, I tried to buy one gallon of fuel.
The cashier pushed my four dollars back.
“No.”
I stiffened.
“I can pay.”
“I know.”
He pointed outside.
“Pump’s already running.”
I turned.
One of the bikers had put his card into pump three.
The numbers climbed.
Ten dollars.
Twenty.
Thirty.
“Stop.”
I hurried outside.
The biker looked confused.
“I said stop.”
Grant came over.
“It’s fuel.”
“I know what it is.”
My voice rose.
“I can’t owe you.”
Grant’s expression changed.
“You don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
I pointed at the pump.